Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
It’s very different already to the mansion he took me to the night of the event. Dawson pulls into a driveway with a large black fence wrapped around the property. He leans over and puts in a code at the gate, and when it opens, he continues down the driveway, the outside lights flickering on as we approach.
I make out a house that looks like it came straight out of the Hamptons. I think it’s a cream color, but I can’t be sure because it’s nighttime. I admire the front of the home, with its two large wooden doors, as the garage automatically opens. The inside of the garage lights up, showing another three sports cars. Doesn’t the saying go “Boys and their toys”?
“No Gatsby comment?” he teases.
I smile as we step out of the car, and he grabs my bag. “That has yet to be decided.”
But it feels different here. It’s grand and magnificent, yes. But it already feels more homey. Probably because he lives in it, and it appears to be smaller than the other mansion, and I don’t know why, but I like that. The other one felt… vacant.
He pulls one of the doors open, and I’m instantly met with gleaming white marble tiles. He flicks on the lights and leads me down a short hallway until we enter an incredibly large kitchen.
“Do you have cooks?” I ask, eyeing the beautiful, spacious kitchen. It almost reminds me of the one back at home in Italy. Stepping past him, I run my hand over the marble counter—white with gray streaks running through it.
“Yes, they come on the weekends to pre-cook my meals for the week,” he replies.
“Wow.”
I turn to the two-door fridge and pull it open. I find an array of ingredients and start reaching for things I can use.
“What do you plan to cook?” he asks, and I hear the amusement in his voice.
I look over my shoulder at him. “Are you allergic to anything, or is there anything you won’t eat?”
“Just mushrooms,” he says. “But you won’t find any in there.”
“Okay, good.”
I pull out pots and pans while he goes to another refrigerator disguised as a pantry and pulls out a bottle of wine.
He pours two glasses, and I start cooking.
“Pasta? What type?” he asks.
“What you like to classify as carbonara,” I reply. I usually make the pasta from scratch, but Dawson doesn’t have all the ingredients, so I use the packaged pasta in the cupboard. My nonna would hate it, but it can still taste amazing if you nail the sauce.
Being in the kitchen puts me at ease because I want to check out every crevice of his home, but I don’t want to be obvious about it.
“Who taught you to cook?” he asks.
“My mother can’t cook. Actually, I don’t think she even knows how to turn the stove on.” I laugh. “My mother’s mother was a great cook. And after Rya left, I spent more time with her, and she taught me most things. Then, in the summer, I would sign up for cooking classes. It was amazing. I really enjoy baking as well.”
“So why are you working in lingerie?”
I stop stirring the sauce and look up at him. “What do you mean? I quit.”
“Hm…” he hums as he slips his hands around my waist. “I heard your boss was a tyrant.”
“Oh, he was,” I deadpan. “I think he was compensating for other things he lacked.”
He squeezes my sides, and I laugh. He rests his chin on my shoulder, and it’s nice. It’s easy and comfortable, and I wish we could stay like this forever.
“I’m serious, though. What are you doing with your life?” he asks.
I blow out a breath. Wow! It’s like the conversation with my parents all over again. Except I don’t feel like I’ll be judged by Dawson, and he will hear me out earnestly.
“I really don’t know,” I say thoughtfully. “I’m not like Rya. And with everything after the arranged marriage falling through, I want a moment to decide what I want. And I suppose three months isn’t enough to figure that out yet.”
He considers me, his grip around my waist tight, which is comforting. “And will you go back to Italy?”
I stir the sauce, contemplating that for a moment. “I really don’t know.”
Silence passes between us, then he presses a kiss to my cheek before moving beside me to slice the bacon into small cubes.
“Not just a pretty face,” he says, and I smile.
This feels… domestic, and I’m almost surprised by his shift but grateful to know that we can do something other than have sex even though it’s mind-blowing.
This is… nice.
And I wonder if we would remain like this if I decided to stay in New York. Or would our fling end at some point, and we’d part ways? And that thought leaves a bitter sadness that I don’t want to confront.